


The Sun We Know

by tactfulGnostalgic



Series: The Sun We Know [6]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon Compliant, Earth C (Homestuck), F/F, First Kiss, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Post-Canon, Relationship Discussions, Self Confidence Issues, Taking The Name Of Kanaya In Vain, body image issues, general insecurity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 20:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9089575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tactfulGnostalgic/pseuds/tactfulGnostalgic
Summary: This is the one where you end up together. It's a statistical improbability, finding each other, loving each other, and yet here you are.





	

You try not to rush into anything after the Game ends.

You both have demons to face and shit to sort out. You have to deal with, like, a shit ton of PTSD, and repair your friendships with Dirk and Jane and Jake, and figure out your relationship with your mother-and-also-daughter and her group of friends. On top of being a good and responsible deity. Calliope has to try and reconcile herself with her own death and then newfound not-deadness, and the existence of her alternate self, and the insecurities that come from being one of infinite timelines.

Neither of you are exactly looking to complicate matters. You're happy being her best friend. She's such a good friend, too, and an excellent roommate on top of that. She makes the best coffee, on the sweet side with a splash of cream, and likes cleaning the living room when you trash it during a movie marathon, and always makes the meals because after living so long on only what was brought for her to make her own food is a kind of freedom. She lets you hog the bookshelves with rows upon rows of wizard fiction - yours and Rose's both - and clog up the TVO with bad movies, and when you're feeling overwhelmed by everything she lets you retreat to your room and guards the door, warding off your friends when they come looking. Calliope becomes a kind of guardian against everything that happened. Holding in her arms, it's possible to look past how close you came to dying. Sometimes it's nice just to hold somebody and know that no matter what, they're  _there._

She never takes off the ring, although theoretically it's possible. Rose assures you that since she is no longer technically dead, and the Dream Bubbles no longer exist, taking off the ring wouldn't do anything to hurt her. Furthermore, the ring probably doesn't even work, since you're out of the session, so there's no reason for her to keep wearing it. But you're the last one to encourage her to risk it. If she dies out here, there's no Dream Bubbles to find her in and bring her back.

And it's assumed a kind of importance to you, the ring. You imagine it probably doesn't mean much to her. Cherubs don't have any idea of what "marriage" is, after all. They find another cherub and then they hatefuck and have kids and then they die. Human marriage is as alien to her as her customs are to you, and even now, you're not certain to what extent she's capable of feeling romantic love. She's told you before that cherubs can't. But she's told you that she's not a normal cherub, too, and you are nothing if not hopeful.

Because after almost a year, you've achieved a kind of codependency. When you first arrived, you had wanted Jane to stay with you, so as to have somebody familiar, but she wanted to live with her Dad, of course, and John; now, Calliope is the only person you could tolerate being in such close quarters with. You've got a newfound appreciation for space and solitude, dealing with the aftermath of the Game. She's the only person you know who understands that desire for solitude.

So at three in the morning, you pack a bag full of food and at five, you knock on her door. She answers groggily, rubbing at her eyes with sharp, clawed fingers. She's not a morning person. It's adorable.

"Roxy?" She blinks blearily. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," you say. "Wanna go somewhere?"

"Roxy," she says, looking at her watch, "it is four fifty-four in the morning."

"Yep. Wanna go somewhere?" You lift your basket earnestly. "I packed breakfast."

"I would - I am happy to do whatever you'd like, love, but I don't understand. Where would you want to go at four fifty-four in the morning?"

"If you come with me, you'll find out."

Her shoulders shake with barely repressed laughter. "I suppose I will. Give me a second to collect myself." She disappears into her room to get dressed, and you plop down on your sofa.

Your apartment is nice. Small, but nice. After living your entire life in an enormous mansion, you wanted something cozy and personal, something that would fit your belongings but wouldn't have any empty space. You hate empty space. You've made it your life's mission to decrease it. The walls of the place are almost papered with Calliope's drawings, interspersed with photographs. There's a picture of Jake and Jade climbing one of the Statues of Liberty together. There's one of Jane and you, having a cup of tea in a nice café down the street. One of you and Dave, pulling faces. Terezi, your absolute favorite, licking a piece of chalk for the camera. Dave and Karkat curled up together on a couch, sleeping. Dirk and Dave, sitting at the turntables together with somber but satisfied faces. You and Dirk. You and Jake. You and Callie. Callie. Callie. She's in a ton of these photos, and that was intentional on your behalf. She doesn't like photos being taken of her, for whatever reason. In your opinion, there's no one more worthy of the camera. 

She emerges in a pale blue sundress and a wide-brimmed hat, and your heart does a giddy little flip. You immediately scold it for being such a sap, but she distracts you by smiling in your general direction and adjusting her blazer. "Are we going?" She nods to the door, and you jump up, take her hand. You hold her hand as often as possible, nowadays. You need grounding, and she needs attention just as badly, although she wouldn't admit it to you.

You take the stairs up instead of down, and when she shoots you a quizzical look, you put a finger to her lips and say "shhhh," even though she didn't say anything. "I've got a plan. Like, a master plan. A crazy wild smart plan. Don't worry."

You reach the roof before remembering that you were supposed to blindfold her first. "Damnit," you say, and cover her eyes quickly. 

"What?"

"Do you mind if I just - look, can you pretend you didn't see this? And then pretend to be surprised when I take my hands off."

"Oh. Of course, yes. Let me know when to look." She's got her eyes closed beneath your fingers, blessed thing. 

"Righty-O." You rip your hands away dramatically. "Okay, now!"

She opens her eyes and gasps, her jaw falling open. You're not sure how much of it is an act, but either way it's gratifying.

You set up a little picnic blanket on your roof. You collected as many pillows as you could - and then made a good few more - and built a fort-nesty-thing of them on the blanket, facing the east, so the sun would rise in your eyes. You considered rose petals, but seeing as she likely wouldn't understand the gesture, and explaining it would be painfully awkward, you opted out.

"This is lovely," she tells you. "I - goodness. How long did it take?"

"Not tellin," you insist. "Voidy powers speed things up. C'mon, siddown." You tug on her hand gently, and she nestles herself in the pillows. You plop down beside her and don't let go of her hand. It's the hand bearing her ring, and you rub your thumb over it. "I figured we'd do something to. I dunno. Celebrate?"

"Celebrate what?" She tilts her head at you. 

"It's been a year. Since. Y'know." You have trouble talking about the Game, nowadays, which is funny, because you never did earlier, much less just after you beat it. But you do, now. You think you're just _done_ with it, on a visceral level. "Stuff ended."

She understands. "Oh," she says. "I'm sorry - I didn't understand. I never used human years - you see, to me, that particular date hasn't quite - but yes, given that we live on Earth. That makes sense."

"Right." You are suddenly embarrassed. "Guess I didn't consider it wouldn't, uh, mean anything to you?"

"But it does." She's quiet for a moment. "It does mean something. The anniversary. It means a great deal to me. Even if it didn't, it means something to you, so it does to me, as well." She offers a smile. Her face stretches and folds in a way that's not human but is unmistakably friendly, and you don't understand how anybody can look at her and feel fear. "I hope I'm not being too unclear."

"I get you," you say, and squeeze her hand. "Thought we'd celebrate alone, before anybody else comes over."

"That was an excellent thing for you to think of, and I am very grateful for - for you thinking it. And doing it. Inviting me, I mean. I am not really . . ." She struggles with her words. She still does, sometimes; it's only in the past year that she's ever had to talk to communicate, rather than thinking over her words and typing them out on a keyboard. "I am not one of you. Really. So, ah, thanks."

"What d'you mean, you're not 'one of us'? Course you are." You frown, eye her in your periphery.

"I didn't - I don't mean to be self-pitying," she tries, earnest, "really, I don't. I am not! But it is very clear, and I think that most of you know - or should - that I did not win. I lost, really. The Game. In the best of all possible sessions, I died."

"Hey -"

"Please." She folds her hands, which involves removing one from your hold. You shut up. "I am not . . . I did not win the Game. I am only here because of your kindness, and your friendship. I was, quite literally, saved by my friends. But what I did to contribute to your success . . . it was marginal, if not useless. So for me, this is not so much a celebration of victory - as it is for everyone else - but one of survival." She swallows. "If that is clear."

"Look, man, you're not - you're not useless, right? You know that."

"I have decided," she says evenly, "not to evaluate myself based on use. I don't have any - I'm not inclined to delude myself, Roxy, as much as it may be nice to imagine. But you have - you have expressed to me, and I have come to accept, that it doesn't make me _less_. Not to have use."

"Yeah. But. Like. I mean, that's true, but it's also not? Like, yeah, you'd be a hella awesome and good person even if you were 'useless,'" you add air-quotes around the word, "but, like, you're not?" You attempt to explain yourself better. "You're kind of. Useful. To me?"

"In what ways?" Her eyes are piercingly curious.

"Um." You twist your head to look at the stars. You made a pet project of charting new constellations for Earth C. They're different stars than the ones you knew, and their patterns are subtly different in a plethora of intricate ways. You identify one you've labeled  _Fefeta_ on the northern rim of the sky, and fix your eyes to it.

"So," you begin, "you remember that time - uh, it was a couple of months ago. There was a storm?"

She nods.

"Yeah. So, my house had storms a lot. When I was a kid. And they used to scare me, a lot, because, y'know, if you're not old enough to tell the difference, thunder sounds a lot like an Imperial Drone. So when it stormed, I'd run down to the panic room and hug one of my shit-tillion cats until it was over, and then I'd go out and, uh, depending on the age, I'd either talk to Dirk or drink. Or both. Um. Anyway. So, uh, I kind of grew out of that, later, and storms didn't bother me so much. And there definitely weren't any on LOPAN, so what's the problem, right? But then one happened here, and it was just - you know. It didn't. It wasn't fun." You swallow around a hardness in your throat. "And, um, you were there. Guess I could've called Janey, or Dirk, but they're busy with their own stuff, a lot of the time. Janey's got her company and shit, and Dirk's got his relationship with Jake to be mendin' and focusin' on, and everybody else - everybody else's got problems, too, and I don't mean to say you don't, but you were just. _There_. You were really there, like nobody's ever been, for me, I mean, and it was just. It was just." Of all the places to stutter, you think. But your mind skips like a scratched track and you find yourself repeating the last phrase until you can bite your tongue, close your eyes, and spit out the last of your thought. "It was fucking shit, and you made it a lot less shit, and I really don't like you calling yourself useless when you're basically the only person who can stop me feeling shit like that."

You're shaking. Calliope gazes at you wide-eyed, and then reaches over and wraps an arm around your shoulder. You meant to be the one comforting her, not the other way around, but you don't push her away. Can't. She brings her other hand to rest on the back of your head and strokes your hair, gently, threading fingers through your curls. You wrap your arms around her waist and wait for the shaking to subside.

When it does, she sits back, sliding her hands down to your elbows. "It took me a long time to be able to do that," she says. "Touching people. Without somebody touching me first."

"Yeah." You don't want to say  _I noticed,_ because that would sound passive-aggressive and hella ungrateful, but you think it; in the first few months of living together, she would often flinch whenever someone touched her, even if it was just a brush of hand against hand, or an accidental hip-check when moving around a busy kitchen. 

"It's not hard to understand why," she adds. "The only person to touch me - for a long time - was my caretaker, and even he did not engage me often. He touched our body no more than was absolutely necessary, and that was often only to keep us from harming ourself - which was more frequent during my brother's periods of control than mine." She taps her fingers on your elbow, seemingly unconscious of the movement. "You are, to this day, the only person I  _can_ touch, willingly, without solicitation." She meets your eyes only belatedly, anxiously. "Which is to say - if you would permit me the expression - you are useful to me, too. In the same way. Which I hope is what you were trying to suggest."

"Yeah," you say. "Yeah, exactly." You fold an arm around her shoulder and draw her to your side, and she goes willingly. You cuddle up in the blankets and lie down, and you reach out with your free hand to point out each of the named constellations while she rests her head on your shoulder. It's nice. It's the only celebration you want.

You sit there until the sun begins to rise, and then you have to hold a hand up to shield your eyes from its light. It's a yellow star, just like yours was, and you wonder if it's strange to Calliope, living with a sun this color. You turn your head a little bit, so your mouth is just an inch from her temple, and murmur the question into her ear.

She considers for a moment. "It was bigger," she says. "And red. Quite red. Made for a dramatic landscape, with the statues everywhere, and the big old sun in the middle of the sky. Never liked it much, myself. It was always a bit . . . overdone, for my tastes."

"What was your home like?"

"Grey. Dark. Neither of us could do much decorating, seeing as the other would inevitably destroy it once they resurfaced. I tried, once - stayed awake for twenty-three hours, painted half of the room green, hung up a few pictures. When I next woke up, it was all gone."

"Hey," you say, passionately, "hey.  _Fuck_ him."

She laughs weakly.

"No. No, I mean it. Like.  _Fuck_ him. Fuck him up the ass with a rusty chainsaw. He deserves whatever godawful fate Vriska gave him. I bet she handed him his ugly ass on a platter and served it with a side of pain sauce."

She laughs genuinely, this time. It's a lovely sound. "Pain sauce?"

"Pain sauce. Liberally applied."

"You invariably make me feel better with the silliest ideas," she says. "It's a remarkable thing."

"It's what I'm here for." You squint at the rising sun. "I think that's _Davepeta,_ up there," you say, pointing out a collection of stars clustering close to the red horizon, with two brilliant planets at the center. "You can tell from the little curl of the claw."

"Did you name any of the constellations after me?" She seems curious but not expectant. That's one of the things you love about Callie - she never expects you to do anything for her. She only asked because she thought it was the kind of thing you might do, and she's right.

"Not yet. Haven't found any bright enough." She rolls her eyes at the line. She's become somewhat immune to your flirting, which you both regret and appreciate in equal measure. "I will, though. It'll be dope. I'll write an entire book about the movements of the constellation  _Calliope_ and how you can find it anywhere. You'll have to come with me for interviews."

"Oh, dear. We'll never rest."

"Never," you promise, and she grins.  

"I am very glad I met you," she says softly. "I am so very glad."

"Hey, same." You hug her a little tighter. "What are you thinking about?"

"The first time you saw me," she says, and then giggles a little bit, "I was a lightning bug."

"What? Oh, yeah. Hah. You were a tiny lil firefly. You were the cutest."

"And then a troll. And then -" she twists her mouth. "Like this. Finally."

"What's that look?" You poke her in the cheek. "What's that dumb look? Are you thinking bad shit about yourself? Because if you are, so help me-"

"I'm  _not_ ," she insists, but you give her a flat look, and she caves. "I am only  _saying_ -"

"If you're trying to bullshit me that you're not pretty, I swear to God -"

"It's not me bullshitting you when I am trying to tell the  _truth_ -"

"Calliope," you say, putting your hands on her shoulders and forcing her to look at you, "you are the prettiest damn alien I have ever laid eyes on, and I've met Kanaya Maryam."

"I am a green  _skeleton_ , Roxy, for God's sake - I'm not meant to be attractive to humans -"

"Whoops, too late. You totally are."

"Stop it," she says unhappily. "Lying to me doesn't make it any better."

You bite your cheek to keep your retort unspoken. "What would?"

"What do you mean?"

"What would make it better. Tell me and I'll do it. Say it. Whatever."

"Nothing will, Roxy," she sighs. "I am the last member of an extinct species. Anyone who would have looked like me is dead, and it's probably best that way."

You're silent for a minute, feeling the quiet beat of her pulse against your chest. You give her time to think, and then you speak again. "I think you don't get -  _how_ I feel about you," you say slowly. "It's not . . . the way you kinda seem to conceptualize it."

When she speaks, it's not angry, but tired. "Then how is it?"

"You seem to think," you start, "that I like you - in _spite_ of your looks? Like your personality is somehow, I don't know, a compensation? For your awful appearance? Or whatever. But that's just not. That's just not how I think about you. At all. It's not true." She has nothing to say, so you press onward. "I - I like you. Because of your appearance. _And_ your personality. Like, that's not to say that I wouldn't like you if you looked different, or if you were dressed like a troll, or something, because hell, I even liked you as a firefly. But how you look is. It's fucking -  _you,_ you know? S' part of you. You're a cherub. You've got green skin and you look like a skeleton and that's  _hella pretty_ because it's  _you._ It's not so much that I like you only for your personality. It's more that you, as a person, are like this, so I like this. Which is to say," you manage, feeling like your heart is trying to climb out through your esophagus, "I think I'm probably incapable of  _not_ finding you pretty."

She gapes at you. You hold her gaze for as long as she returns it, determined not to look away. You refuse to give her a reason to doubt what you're saying.

"Roxy," she begins unevenly. "Do you -" She bites down on her cheek, hard. "I will say this as clearly as I can," she says. Her voice is small and uncertain. "Rose likes John. Very much. She enjoys spending time with him. And when they are together, they are kind to each other, and tell each other jokes and make each other laugh and are very good friends. He reciprocates this feeling, I am sure." She nods. "But Rose likes Kanaya in - in an entirely different way. Which has a distinct set of parameters for what is acceptable activity within the bounds of their relationship." She takes a deep breath. "Do you like me in the way that Rose likes John, or Kanaya?"

"Yeah, um," you say, "Kanaya. Sorry if that's weird or anything, but y'know, that's just what's up. So yeah." You nod, feeling awkward and stupid and ridiculously embarrassed that the eloquent confession you had planned has been reduced to saying an uninvolved party's name. You can't bring yourself to mind too much when you glance back at her and she's staring at you, enrapt, fascinated and gloriously hopeful. "That's a definite yes for Kanaya."

"Oh," she says, and then looks down. She's playing with her ring, twisting it around her finger. 

"So, um," you stutter. "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Well. John or Kanaya?" You tap your foot. "For me."

Calliope's fingers grow still around the ring. "You are aware," she says, "that cherubs do not have human romance. Our only quadrant is comparable to the kismesis, but constitutes a burning hatred for the potential mate. Accordingly, I am not sure what human love feels like. I know what friendship is, and I know what hatred is. But I don't and probably can't understand how Rose feels for Kanaya." Your heart eases on its ambitions of altitude and it sinks into your intestines. "I suppose it's one of those things you take for granted," she says bitterly, "as a human. Even if you may be conflicted on what your emotions are - at least you never doubt your  _capacity_ to have them."

"You don't have to," you say quickly. "You don't - have whatever feelings you want. Do what you want. Man, the only people who gave a shit about you being a proper cherub are dead, and y'know, good riddance. If you think what you're feeling is friendship, fuck yeah, that's friendship. You think you hate somebody, you hate somebody. You think you love someone - uh, y'know, hell yeah, that's what's going on. If you're wrong, you'll figure that out." You shrug. "That's all the rest of us can do, anyway."

"Is it?" She reaches for your hand, hesitantly. 

"Yeah." You let her take it.

"And if I'm wrong." 

"Then you're wrong. So what? No matter what you do, there's a chance you'll be wrong. I trust you to make the right choice."

"Right. You do." She nods to herself. Then she detaches herself from you and rotates to face you directly. "In that case. In that case, I. Ah. Kanaya." She nods, staring at her hands through her long, pretty eyelashes. "It is very much probably Kanaya, I think."

"Oh," you say, and then, a grin splitting your face, "oh, nice.  _Nice._ Hell yeah. Three cheers for motherfucking Kanaya. Patron motherfucking saint of sapphic love, that woman. God bless Kanaya. Oh, thank God." You sigh. "That whole 'fuck yeah, friendship' thing? Total smokescreen. Cause I'm kind of all, full-stop heart-eyes, over here, so, like, it's really fucking lucky you are, y'know, similarly inclined. Would be a  _fuck_ of an awkward situation, otherwise."

"Roxy," Calliope says patiently.

"Right. Right. Sorry. I'm," you say, your foot bouncing ecstatically, "happy."

"I am, too," she says softly. "I am very happy."

"Cool. Oh, man, that's the best thing I've ever heard. Hey," you say suddenly. "Do you want to - um. Look, feel free to say no to this, I'll shut the fuck up  _right_ now, I swear to God. But."

She looks at you curiously. 

"Would you be okay if I gave you a kiss? A quick one."

She blinks. "You've already kissed me." And you have - quick kisses, peppered on her cheeks and forehead, whenever you were going to go somewhere without her, whenever you came back, before going to sleep and after waking up. You've made a habit of it.

"On the mouth, though?"

"Oh. If you'd really like to. But I feel I should remind you that I don't have a human mouth. It is unlikely to be as pleasant as you think."

"Dude," you say excitedly, rising and kneeling in front of her. "Like, let me tell you, it's probably going to be  _exactly_ as pleasant as I think."

You've considered kissing Calliope before, and in the interest of being well-prepared should the opportunity arise, you've already thought about logistics. You're careful to keep her resting on the pillow, and you make sure to avoid poking her in the eye with your nose. You put your hands on the ground on either side of her hips so they aren't flapping around uselessly, and look her long and hard in the eye before going for it. Then, deliberately, you kiss her.

She makes the cutest little surprised yelp, even though she knew it was coming. You close your eyes, because she gets anxious when people watch her. After a few seconds, she puts her hand around your neck and kisses you, too, and holy shit, it's the best fucking thing. You tap your tongue gently against the seal of her lips and she opens them, and then you can feel the length of her tongue and it's really long and all of a sudden you're thinking things that you shouldn't be during your first kiss. 

When you pull away she looks like you've just handed her the world on a platter. Her eyes are wide enough to see the sun reflected in them, and her mouth is still slightly agape. You can almost see the wheels in her brain stuttering along, attempting desperately to process.

You sit back and try not to feel smug, but hey, you've just kissed your girlfriend speechless, and reserve the right to feel self-satisfied. The sun is inching its way up steadily, now. You bet it's at least six o'clock.

"Roxy," she says unsteadily, and then ends the thought. Still unprepared, it seems, to say anything.

"You were wrong," you hum. "It was more pleasant than I thought it would be."

"Technically," she mumbles weakly, "that would still make me right."

You review the conversation in your head and then roll your eyes. "Oh my God, whatever. That is so far from the point right now that the point and it aren't even in the same universe. That sentence and the point are star-crossed lovers reaching for each other from across radically opposed universes. The point just had all of its family killed while that sentence went to get retcon powers and revive everyone for the final showdown."

"You are incomprehensible sometimes, love."

"Yeah. You love me anyways." You tip your head against your shoulder and grin. "You love me like Rose loves Kanaya."

"Yes. We have established this."

"You fell in love with a big fuckin' dork, Callie. Oh, man. That's so lame."

"You are talking about _yourself._ "

"Yeah, but still, babe. You're the cutest." You lean up and kiss her cheek.

"Goodness." A dark flush rises on her face. "What I've done to deserve -"

You kiss her to cut her off. "Mmmmnope." You pull away and then snuggle into the curve of her neck. "I decide who deserves the primetime Ro-Lal lovin', and it's you. Deserving or not. Don't give a fuck." You hug her chest.

"Okay." She doesn't believe you, probably, but you'll climb that mountain later. Right now she's here, and she loves you, and that's literally the only thing you want to think about for at least six hours. Maybe eight. You'll see how it goes.

The sun climbs higher and higher and higher, and you watch it go. It's a strange yellow star, that sun. It looks like yours, and it feels like yours, but it's not. Likewise with this planet; it's strange, and wild, but it's no more yours than hers, and that's a lovely thing to think about. This is a world that's both of yours. You sit with her, and watch the sun rise, and feel the warmth settle in your chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thus ends the series finale. I really loved writing these; I like the idea that these girls find each other in a multitude of ways, across a multitude of universes. Let me know what you thought, or if you have suggestions for what to write next.


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